Last Guardian

by David Gemmell

  Then they knelt around the corpse, and each touched his forehead to the body. Finally they rose and turned to face the bound man. Clem looked into their golden, slitted eyes, then down at the serrated knives they all held.

  No glittering reputation for Clem Steiner, no admiring glances. No treasure would be his, no adoring women. Anger flooded him, and he struggled at the ropes that bit into his flesh as the reptiles advanced.

  “Behold,” said a voice, and Clem glanced to his right to see Jon Shannow standing with the sun behind him, his face in silhouette. The voice was low and compelling, and the reptiles stood and stared at the newcomer. “Behold, the whirlwind of the Lord goeth forth in fury, a continuing whirlwind: it shall fall with pain upon the heads of the wicked.”

  Then there was silence as Shannow stood calmly, the morning breeze flapping at his long coat.

  One of the reptiles lowered his knife. He stepped forward, his voice a sibilant hiss.

  “You sspirit or man?”

  Shannow said nothing, and the reptiles gathered together, whispering. Then the leader moved away from them, approaching the Jerusalem Man.

  “I can ssmell your blood,” hissed the Dagger. “You are man.”

  “I am death,” Shannow replied.

  “You are a truthsspeaker,” said the reptile at last. “We have no fear, but we undersstand much that men do not. You are what you ssay you are, and your power iss felt by uss. Thiss day is yourss. But other dayss will dawn. Walk warily, man of death.”

  The leader gestured to the other Daggers, then turned on his heel and loped away.

  Time stood still for Clem, and it seemed that Shannow had become a statue. “Help me,” called the wounded man, and the Jerusalem Man walked slowly to the tree and squatted down. Clem looked into his eyes. “I owe you my life,” he said.

  “You owe me nothing,” said Shannow. He cut Clem’s bonds and plugged the wounds in his chest and leg; then he helped him dress and led him to the black stallion.

  “There’re more of them, Shannow. I don’t know where they are.”

  “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” said the Jerusalem Man, lifting Steiner into the saddle. He mounted behind him and rode from the hills.

  Sharazad watched as Szshark and his three companions loped into the clearing. She lifted a hand and waved the tall reptile to her; he approached and gave a short bow.

  “You found the man?”

  “Yess.”

  “And killed him?”

  “No. Another claimed him.”

  Sharazad swallowed her anger. Szshark was the leader of these creatures; he had been the first of the reptiles to pledge allegiance to the king. “Explain yourself,” she said.

  “We took him—alive, as you ssaid. Then sshadow came. Tall warrior. Ssun at his back. He sspoke power wordss.”

  “But he was human, yes?”

  “U-man, yess,” Szshark agreed. “I go now?”

  “Did he fight? What? What happened?”

  “No fight. He wass death, Goldenhair. He wass power. We felt it.”

  “So you just left him? That is cowardice, Szshark!”

  His wedge-shaped head tilted, and his huge golden eyes bored into her own. “That word for u-manss. We have no fearss, Goldenhair. But it would be wrong to die for nothing.”

  “How could you know you would die? You did not try to fight him. You have guns, do you not?”

  “Gunss!” spit Szshark. “Loud noisses. Kill very far. No honor! We are Daggerss. Thiss man. Thiss power. He carry gunss. But not hold them. You ssee?”

  “I see everything. Gather twenty warriors and hunt him down. I want him. Take him. Do you understand that?”

  Szshark nodded and moved away from her. She did not understand; she would never understand. The death man could have opened fire on them at any time, but instead he had spoken words of power. He had given them a choice: life or death. As starkly simple as that. What creature of intelligence would have chosen anything but life? Szshark gazed around at the campsite. His warriors were waiting for his word.

  He chose twenty and watched them run from the camp.

  Sharazad summoned him again.

  “Why are you not with them?” she asked.

  “I gave him thiss day,” he said, and walked away. He could feel her anger washing over him, sense her longing to put a bullet in his back. He walked to the stream and squatted down, dipping his head under the surface and revelling in the cool quiet of below.

  When the king of Atlantis had led his legions into the jungles, the Ruazsh had fought them to a standstill. But Szshark had seen the inevitable outcome. The Ruazsh had been too few to withstand the might of Atlantis. He had journeyed alone to seek out the king.

  “Why have you come?” the king asked him, sitting before his battle tent.

  “Kill you or sserve you,” Szshark answered.

  “How will you determine which course of action?” the king inquired.

  “Iss already done.”

  The king nodded, his face stretching, baring his teeth. “Then show me,” he said.

  Szshark knelt and offered the king his curved dagger. The monarch took it and held the point to Szshark’s throat.

  “Now it seems I have two choices.”

  “No,” said Szshark, “only one.”

  The king’s mouth opened, and a series of barking sounds disturbed the reptile. In the months that followed he would learn that this sound was laughter and that it denoted good humor among humans. He rarely heard that sound now from Sharazad unless something had died.

  Now, as he lifted his head from the water, a rippling of faint music echoed inside his mind. He answered the calling.

  “Speak, my brother, my son,” his mind answered.

  A Dagger moved from the bushes and crouched low to the ground, his eyes averted from Szshark’s face.

  The music in Szshark’s mind hardened, and the language of the Ruazsh flowed in the corridors of his mind. “Goldenhair wishes to attack the homes of the land humans. Her mind is easy to read. But there are few warriors there, Szshark. Why are we here? Have we offended the king?”

  “The king is a great power, my son. But his people fear us. We are now … merely playthings for his bedmate. She longs for blood. But we are pledged to the king, and we must obey. The land humans are to die.”

  “It is not good, Szshark.” The music changed again. “Why did the truthspeaker not kill us? Were we beneath his talents?”

  “You read his thoughts. He did not need to kill us.”

  “I do not like this world, Szshark. I wish we could go home.”

  “We will never go home, my son. But the king has promised never to reopen the gate. The seed is safe, but we are the hostages to that promise.”

  “Goldenhair hates us. She will see us all dead. There will be no one to eat our hearts and give us life. And I can no longer feel the souls of my brothers beyond the gates.”

  “Nor I. But they are there, and they carry our souls. We cannot die.”

  “Goldenhair comes!” The reptile climbed to his feet and vanished into the undergrowth.

  Szshark stood, observing the woman. Her ugliness was nauseating, but he closed his mind to it, concentrating instead on the grossness of the language of man.

  “What you wissh?” he asked.

  “There is a community close by. I wish to see it destroyed.”

  “As you command,” he replied.

  21

  SHANNOW RODE WITH care, holding the wounded man in place but stopping often to study his back trail. There was no sign of pursuit yet, and the Jerusalem Man headed higher into the hills, riding across rocky scree that would leave little evidence of his passing. Steiner’s chest wound had ceased to bleed, but his trouser leg was drenched with blood and he had fallen into a feverish sleep, his head on Shannow’s shoulder.

  “Didn’t mean it, Pa,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to do it! Don’t hit me, Pa!” Steiner began to weep—low moans, rhythmic and intens
e.

  Shannow halted the stallion in a rough circle of boulders high on the hillside overlooking the great wall. Holding on to Steiner, he dismounted and then lowered the unconscious man to the ground. The stallion moved off a few paces and began cropping grass as Shannow made up a bed and covered Steiner’s upper body with a blanket. Taking a needle and thread, he sewed the wounds in the pistoleer’s leg. The gaping hole at the rear of the thigh caused him concern, for the shell had obviously ricocheted from the bone and broken up, causing a large exit wound. Shannow sealed it as best he could, then left Steiner to rest. He walked to the ridge and stared down over the countryside. Far in the distance he could see dark shadows moving, seeking a trail. He knew that he and Steiner had a three-hour start, but loaded down with a wounded man that would mean nothing.

  He considered riding back to Pilgrim’s Valley but dismissed the idea. It would mean setting a course that would take him across the line of the reptiles, and he didn’t feel he would be as lucky a second time.

  Shannow had left the settlement at dawn but had been drawn to the east by the sound of gunshots. He had seen the black-clad reptiles dragging Steiner to the tree and stripping his clothes and had watched them eat the heart of their dead comrade. He had never seen the like of them or heard of any such creatures. It seemed strange that they should appear in Pilgrim’s Valley unheralded.

  According to local legend, there were beasts beyond the wall that walked like men, but never had he heard them described as scaled. Nor had he heard of any man-beasts who sported weapons, especially the remarkable Hellborn pieces.

  He put the problem from his mind. It did not matter where they came from; they were here now and had to be faced.

  Steiner began to weep again in his sleep, and Shannow moved across to him, taking his hand. “It’s all right, boy. You’re safe. Sleep easy.” But the words did not penetrate, and the weeping continued.

  “Oh, please, Pa. Please. I’m begging you!” Sweat coursed on Steiner’s face, and his color was not good. Shannow added a second blanket and felt the man’s pulse; it was erratic and weak.

  “You’ve two chances, boy,” said Shannow. “Live or die. It’s up to you.”

  He eased back up to the ridge, careful not to skyline himself. To the east the dark shadows were closer now, and Shannow counted more than twenty figures moving slowly across the landscape. Far to the west he could see a thin spiral of smoke that could have been coming from a campfire.

  Steiner was in no shape to ride, and Shannow did not have the firepower to stop twenty enemies. He scratched at the stubble on his cheek and tried to think the problem through. Steiner’s mumbling had faded away, and he went to him. The man was sleeping now, his pulse a little stronger. Shannow returned to the ridge and waited.

  How many times had he waited thus, he wondered, while enemies crept up on him? Brigands, warmakers, hunters, Hellborn Zealots—all had sought to kill the Jerusalem Man.

  He recalled the Zealots, frenzied killers whose Blood Stones had given them bizarre powers, enabling their spirits to soar and take over the bodies of animals and direct them to their purpose. Once Shannow had been attacked by a lion possessed by a Zealot; he had fallen from a high cliff and had almost drowned in a torrent.

  Then there were the Guardians with their terrible weapons re-created from the Between Days, guns that fired hundreds of times per minute, sending out screaming shells that could rip a man to pieces.

  But none had mastered the Jerusalem Man.

  Pendarric, the ghost king of Atlantis, had told Shannow he was Rolynd, a special kind of warrior with a God-given sixth sense that warned him of danger. But even with Pendarric’s aid Shannow had almost died fighting the Guardians’ leader, Sarento.

  How much longer could his luck hold?

  Luck, Shannow? He glanced at the sky in mute apology. A long time before, when he had been a child, a holy man had told him a story. It was about a man who came to the end of his days and, looking back, saw his footprints in the sands of his life. And beside them was a second set, which he knew to be God’s. But when the man looked closely, he saw that in the times of his greatest trouble there was only a single set. The man looked at God and asked, “Why is it that you left me when my need was greatest?” And God replied, “I never left you, my son.” And when the man asked, “Why, then, was there only one set of footprints?” God smiled and replied, “Because those were the times when I carried you.”

  Shannow grinned, recalling the days in the old school-house with his brother Daniel. Many were the stories told by Mr. Hillel, and always they were uplifting.

  The figures out on the plain were closer now. Shannow could make out the black armor on their chests and the gray scaled skin of their wedge-shaped faces. He eased himself back from the ridge and tethered the stallion to a rock, then took his spare pistols from the saddlebag and thrust them into his belt. Returning to the ridge, he studied the slope before him, estimating distances between cover and choosing the best fields of fire.

  He wished Batik were there. The giant Hellborn was a warrior born, fearless and deadly. Together they had fought their way through a vast stone fortress to free a friend. Batik had journeyed into the city of New Babylon to rescue Donna Taybard and had fought the Devil himself. Shannow needed him now.

  The leading Dagger had found the scent and was waving the others forward. They gathered in a tight bunch some two hundred yards away, then loped toward the ridge. Shannow drew his Hellborn pistols and cocked them.

  Just then a group of four horsemen appeared, coming from the west. They saw the reptiles and reined in, more curious than afraid. One of the reptiles fired, and a man lurched in the saddle. As the other three returned the fire, Shannow took the opportunity to roll over the ridge and run to a large boulder halfway down the slope. The shooting continued for several seconds, and he saw a horse go down, the rider lying flat, shielded by the body; the man had a rifle and was coolly sending shot after shot into the reptiles. Five of them were down, and the rest began to run for cover. Shannow stepped out into their path with his pistols blazing; two were swept from their feet, and a third fell clutching his throat. The shock of his sudden attack was too much for them, and the survivors turned and ran back over the plain, their speed incredible. Shannow waited for several seconds, watching the bodies. One of the downed reptiles suddenly rolled, bringing up a pistol … Shannow shot him in the head. Then he walked out to the riders. Two men were dead, and a third was wounded; the fourth man stood cradling his rifle in his arms. He was sandy-haired, with a wide friendly face and narrow eyes. Shannow recognized him as one of the riders who had been present when he had repossessed his horse.

  “Very grateful for your assistance, Shannow,” said the man, holding out his hand. “My friends call me Bull.”

  “Glad to meet you, Bull,” said Shannow, ignoring the hand. “You arrived at the right time.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” the rider answered, looking down at his dead comrades. The wounded man was sitting up, clutching his shoulder and cursing.

  “There’s another wounded man up on the ridge,” said Shannow. “I suggest you ride into Pilgrim’s Valley and have a wagon sent.”

  “I’ll do that. But looks like there’s a storm brewing. I should get him to Frey McAdam’s cabin. We finished it yesterday, and at least he’ll be under cover and in a bed.”

  Bull gave Shannow directions, and then he and the wounded man rode off toward the north. Shannow stripped the guns and ammunition from the dead men and walked back to the bodies of the reptiles, crouching to examine them. The eyes were large and protruding, golden in color, the pupils long and oval like those of cats. Their faces were elongated, the mouths lipless and rimmed with pointed teeth. But what made Shannow most uneasy was that they all wore identical body armor, and that reminded him of the Hellborn. These creatures were not individual killers; they were part of an army … and that did not bode well. He gathered their guns and hid them behind a rock. Then, returni
ng to the ridge, he dragged the unconscious Steiner upright and pushed him across the saddle of the stallion. Gathering his blankets, he mounted behind Steiner and rode for Beth McAdam’s cabin.

  When Samuel McAdam walked from the new cabin and saw the man sitting on the ground in the shade of the building, his fear rose and he stepped back a pace, staring at the newcomer. The man was very large, with the blackest beard Samuel had ever seen; he was gazing intently at the distant wall.

  “It is a hot day,” the man observed without turning around.

  Samuel said nothing.

  “I am not a man to fear, child. I carry no weapon, and I am merely sitting here, enjoying the breeze before moving on.” The voice was low, deep, and reassuring, but Beth McAdams’s son had been warned many times about trusting strangers.

  “Some,” Beth had told him, “look fair but feel foul. Others look foul and are foul. Treat them all the same. Keep away from them.” But this was difficult, for the man was sitting virtually in the doorway of their house. He had not come in, though, thought Samuel, which at least showed he had good manners. Beth was in the meadow with Mary, the oxen hitched to the plow, the long, arduous work of preparing the soil under way. Samuel wondered if he should just run back through the house and fetch his mother.

  “I would appreciate a drink of water,” said the man, pointing to the well dug out by Bull and the others. “Would it be permissible?”

  “Sure,” Samuel replied, happy to be able to grant a favor to an adult and enjoying the unaccustomed power that came with bestowing a gift. The man stood and walked over to the well, and Samuel saw that his hands were huge and his arms long. He had a swaying walk, like a man unused to solid ground who feared it might pitch beneath him. He dropped the bucket into the well and hauled it up with ease, dipping the long-handled ladle into it and drinking deeply. Then he walked back slowly and sat watching Samuel.